Elias looked straight at the saloon porch and spoke like he was laying a plank across a ravine.
“Come along, Mrs. Mercer.”
Clara’s breath caught. Her eyes filled with wet light. Not hope exactly, not yet, but the first small symptom of it.
Elias guided her toward the mercantile, placing himself between her and the crowd. Inside, Mr. Jenkins looked up from his ledger, eyes flicking from Elias to Clara with the quick calculation of a man measuring trouble.
“We’ll need a warm shawl,” Elias said, steady as he could make it. “Mountains bite early.”
Clara’s mouth opened as if to protest, but no sound came out. She watched as Elias chose a thick wool shawl in deep blue, paid without flinching, and draped it around her shoulders like he was repairing something holy.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Elias nodded, uncomfortable with gratitude, but even more uncomfortable with the idea of refusing it. “Ain’t right,” he said instead. “Treating folks that way.”
When they left the store, the laughter had thinned into murmurs. Elias helped Clara onto Gideon, then took the reins and chose to walk, both to steady the mule and to make it plain that he wasn’t ashamed to bear the weight of this day.
As they started up the road out of town, the stage driver called after them, loud and flat: “Her fare’s spent, mister! Stepfather didn’t pay for a return.”
